


Mesmerise, Hypnotise

by helena_s_renn



Category: Def Leppard, Music RPF, Pyromania - Def Leppard (Music Videos)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of het, music video, showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: Just a man and his band... I mean his hand.Takes place after a long day of shooting the video for Foolin'.





	1. Theatrical Version

**Author's Note:**

> What follows is:  
> Chapter 1 - The final edited version of this fic (Theatrical Version), and  
> Chapter 2 - The original finished fic (Extended Uncut Version). Chapter 2 only appears on this site. Most of the differences are found near the end.
> 
> No disrespect intended to any member of Def Leppard, past or present. The opposite. If you get to Ch 2, I actually like Phil's voice... now. In '83, not so much.
> 
> More cheerleading than I deserve by RF's fairy11, who cheerfully sat through 3 or 4 versions. 
> 
> Preliminary beta by ChristianHowe. Any remaining errors or shortcomings are my own.

1983 

The video was going to be different than any they'd ever done before. MTV had exploded into the fastest vehicle to super-stardom and if they wanted along for the ride, they'd have to pander to it.

Joe lay back, naked and exhausted, fresh from the shower. What a long day it had been, shooting footage for the type of music video creation required for airtime. His body - naturally hearty; he was tall, young, healthy - had been pushed today. Thank fuck there'd been hot water! He took a moment to reflect upon his clean-up.

Perhaps it sounded egotistical, but he wished someone could have joined him, to wash and care for him and admire his pale golden skin. Joe lived for attention and connection, he was never stingy with giving back once he'd been indulged. Never did he want stories to circulate that he wasn't every bit as good as he projected. Being a bad lay could kill the fan base almost as fast as getting fat.

Letting the water cascade down all over himself, that was the best part of the day so far. Almost a fantasy, better for being real. He imagined his own long bare limbs flashing between the jets. Heat infused him through and through. Steaming hot water beat across his shoulders, slithered down his back, ran like ticklish fingertips over his arse and down his legs, finally pooling around his toes. Everywhere, he chased it with soap and washed suds away.

Tipping his newly blond head back, he drenched his hair, the longer strands clinging to his neck. Then the front, with the spray blasting his chest and running on down. He already had a covering of hair over his pecs, though his flat mauve nipples and beyond were excluded. It became a wet pelt, which he washed, then turned his attention lower to parts he carefully tended to but only to clean just yet. Then the real dirty bits, the parts that needed more soap. He raised one arm to scrub, then the other. Yeah, he had nice biceps, he knew it, sort of long and stringy but very noticeable in sleeveless shirts with his arms up. Furtively checking though he knew he was alone, he turned around once more to sanitise his bum. His fingers along the cleft gave him illicit tingles he tried to ignore, but his dick, apparently, could not. A different sort of heat coalesced and began to rise at his groin.

He turned the water off. Then he was done, out, grabbing a fresh towel off the rack to dry off on the way to his room. Unable to resist a glance in the steam-wreathed mirror, he studied his tousled, water-logged look. He couldn't help a nod. And a second look, and a third. Over the past couple of years his facial features had subtly changed, jaw narrowed and eyes wider. Maybe it was the hair style refocusing the viewers' perception, the lighter length highlighting a new vision of him. Of all of them, his chest had a depth to it. Power, range, all those vocal and breathing exercises come to fruition. Still wet, water shone on his bare upper body reminiscent of gleaming with sweat under the lights.

So good to be clean! Dropping the towel next to his bed, he'd slid under the covers before the humid warmth could evaporate. 

Settled in the bed, he reached down and touched himself. Tonight he needed it more than ever. Years had taught him how to control the teenage hormones to some degree, but they had never died down. A hand there, where he had to keep it away from other than furtive adjustments, told him as always, he was a man. 

The line between men and women had grown thinner since his school days, he reflected. Some women came to their shows with the sole purpose of getting a leg over, he supposed one could say. He certainly didn't mind. Nor did his mates. Just thinking about a few choice backstage adventures on the last tours had him chubbing up further. That was always how it went: first the breadth and then the length, and then, the head would mushroom out with its rounded yet angled ridge. He tested the expanding dimensions with light touches, teasing them to grow to full size. 

Testosterone, not just his, had predominated the video shoot. A full day of watching his bandmates and knowing their eyes were all over him, too, left him with a lot of tension. Then there'd been the actresses - those portraying the Fates and those in cages. Ripped clothes, big hair, loud make-up everywhere, trademarks of the times and of girls who lived almost as fast as the boys they chased. While there'd been little interaction between the groups, they got to watch in turn. 

Joe snorted to himself. 'Got to watch.' It sounded sexy but the reality was far from it, everything in multiple takes, starting and stopping. Kind of like recording an album. But the end result would be so worth it. 

There was still plenty of their usual air guitar. Hair guitar. Yes, phallic symbols for three of them anyway, slung at crotch level or higher or lower and Joe ate that up, watching them play with themselves on stage. Or like today, faking it. Fingers and picks following the music, rather than making it. The play of Joe's fingers encouraged further lengthening, thickening, stiffening. He considered the short chunky lines of a Gibson Les Paul custom, deceivingly fine strings that produced everything from growls to harmonics, precision speed and sloppy drunken hooks just waiting to be polished. Then a sleek black Ibanez worthy of the label of axe. Screams of silken fire and swaggering rage generated there, soaring triplets that would echo across time. Between and below, the long, elegant neck of a Hamer. Their bassist wielded the four-string version of a Destroyer these days, and it suited him. No big ugly, clumsy, rounded boat of an instrument for him. Its four thick strings stood out like unconcealed weapons. In competition with the thing, wood versus wood, Joe had to squeeze his eyes shut tight not to want to rub his dick against the sheer size of it. 

Instead, he let his hand caress his instrument. Its double barrel was fretless, better to please. From where it jutted from his groin to the tip, its width consistently filled the cave of his curled fingers. No guitar was ever this responsive. Just the touch of his own fingers set licks of molten lust through his body. Toes spread and curled. Knees bent, and pushed apart. He'd have sworn his balls grew, too; they needed the extra room. 

Starting with himself in first place for most magnificent transformation, Joe contemplated the combination of luck and drive - and hairspray and bleach - that had brought them there to the studio. As if he were still chained to the metal frame, Joe straightened his long legs and moved them further apart under the sheet. He closed his eyes, and remembered. Bright lights had shone down on him. He'd been dressed in all white, the sacrificial lamb. They'd placed a camera beyond his feet but between his legs and he'd been dubious. Really? All they were going to get was balls. But no, they had their own photographic tricks and also, a pair of pants so tight for Joe to be shooed into the loo to stuff himself into, his nether regions might never be the same. 

No, that was a lie. The swelling meat in his hand said all systems were go. He gave it slow, long strokes till his staff was fully hardened. Here again, he knew he was lucky to own this piece and he was proud of it, too, both the size and shape as well as what he'd learned he could do with it. He had been blessed in its bulky dimensions and aesthetics. Veiny, but otherwise the stretched skin was silky-smooth when he was erect like this, the foreskin evident even when hard though it retracted enough to show the dark-reddish head. 

Thumbing the slit, he spread the welling droplets all around. With the other hand, he combed through his bush a few times, thinking it was good he'd trimmed it considering how see-through those trousers had been. So strange, that a bloke would be required to do such a thing, but he knew he wasn't the only one. Phil was hairy as fuck but he'd once taken a clipper to that mess in front of all of them, forthright as anything. Pretty soon they were all doing it. Joe chuckled, thinking about pretty boys and their pretty pubes.

Lower, past the still-swelling base of his cock, he let his sac rest in the palm of his hand. The two heavy stones inside tightened with the contact. It was a man's instinct to protect his jewels. Being able to play with them, move them and roll them, was such a delight. His little huffs of caught breath punctuated each dangerous tug. The juices inside moved only a bit through their ducts, a minute droplet at a time being added to the load. It needed to be huge tonight, the kind of gusher to make him jack-knife and sully his chest hair till it gelled into a sticky mat. 

The pain of holding back, holding off all day had returned. Ignoring his body's demands for a speedy release, Joe went back to his memory of the day again. They'd wanted him to pull at the bonds, to fight against them. So yes, he'd done it, had given them their show. Writhing and straining, he arched and lifted his arse, providing what they wanted: muscles, exposed navel, the lines of his body, spread legs and his sweating face contorted in the name of lip-sync, in torture and ecstasy. 

Yeah, the others had watched. At first, they'd made their little comments and catcalls, but as it wore on, take after take with small variations, everyone had gone more and more silent. Joe would have sworn he could hear them all breathing, panting, peeking between the cameramen and grips who'd seen it all before. It was down to him to get it right, and not get hard as they all observed his squirming. No longer under a hundred watchful eyes, he performed for no one himself, playing with his boner in his bed. Pull, slide, spread the slick. 

When that part of the filming was over and they let him down off the framework, he'd had a long drink from his flask. He'd needed it bad. Naked and alone, Joe's throat hitched a few times. His hips flexed. He should have brought a bottle to bed with him, it would be better than being alone. And he needn't be, so why was he? 

Steve and Phil certainly weren't alone. They'd been the most vocal of commentators, but they'd also been eye-fucking each other the entire time and he'd seen them duck into shadows more than once. He had to admit, it was hot. He hadn't actually witnessed the snogging, humping or whatever they were doing, but knowing it was happening, he couldn't help it, it aroused him. A grinning Rick had been ferried off at the end by not just one but three of those cage chicks. No doubt he was in for one hell of a wild night. And why not? If their drummer chose to perform in nothing but tiny short-shorts, someone was going to notice what they were concealing not all that well, and what they weren't. Hell, the kid was 19, he could probably still get it up four or five times a day and take care of those three birds, easy.

The next suite of strokes were dedicated to the aforementioned. Joe felt no shame in wanking to fantasies of his bandmates getting it on. The thoughts were his, it wasn't like he was banging any of them himself or hosting orgies with the extras. He could have. Some of those girls were into him. Years of being looked at, leered at, undressed by pairs of eyes of every colour told him that he'd have been naked in less than a minute if any of them could have turned thoughts into actions. 

His thighs were as wide as they'd go now, arse muscles tight. Just a little push into his hand. Wanting to thrust, he let himself coil and shove once. A quick squeeze around the base of his balls prevented their elevation just yet. 

The past year had brought big changes, Joe reflected. Their look: they were all shades of blond, streaked and straightened. Blame the London style Phil wore, they'd all gone in for it. Well, other than Sav. Joe didn't know about the multi-shaded fuzzball he was calling hair these days. Also Phil's influence or maybe just fashion, gold hoop earrings abounded. They were no longer stealing mums' and sisters' clothes, but wearing off-the-rack pieces to show off their... boys. 

Yeah, Joe could see it - them - too in whenever they'd played back the last bit of footage between takes. His thin trousers had been so translucent, his panty-lines had been obvious, and so had his bollocks once he was centred behind his mike stand and gravity did its thing. It wasn't just him, either. Phil hitched his inseam up farther than necessary, and Steve bulged worse than Joe sometimes, unintentionally. Then there was Rick flopping around back there... 

What was this, a competition? No, appreciation. They were all well-hung young blokes with little to no shame. That was part of the fun, seeing how far they could go in photo shoots or onstage, or who could tell the loudest, dirtiest joke but not get them kicked out of the pub. Their mate Halfin was just as bad, what with the shots he took of them constantly pointing at or otherwise displaying their assets.

Maybe he was naked and alone now, grinding his butt into the mattress but in his fantasy he was half-dressed again. Not in the white ensemble from earlier, but shiny pleather black as sin and a belt made of handcuff pieces slung carelessly around his waist. Heartbeat thundering, Joe imagined other fingers sliding up and down, cupping him. Feeling him so ready and aching. A bass player would know how to handle the longer length, something big and thick. Would know when to play it soft and melodic, or when to pound it. 

Fuck. Sav. His best mate, supposedly. He'd been consciously avoiding what his eyes had been filled with today, but he couldn't stop the flood of impressions any longer. Joe snaked his back, a sinuous side to side, every vertebra involved, and thrust into his hand. "Fuuuuck... Yeaaah," he groaned, echoing his own thoughts, dipping down into his true baritone range. Since the beginning, Sav's place on stage had been in the middle, right beside Joe. Their harmony formed the backbone of the vocal wall, while Sav also held up the rhythm with Rick. So Joe needed Sav, in that regard. 

And he needed him in another regard, lately. The dailies or the playback or whatever these music business people called it saw the bassist's lush mouth inches from the camera more often than Joe's. Sav had bent around sideways and let his mess of frosted curls hang down while he sneered into the upturned lens. Gawd, Joe wanted, he just wanted. What that mouth could do to him... and if Sav was as inexperienced at sucking dick as they all were, presumably, they could learn together. That would almost be better than if Sav were an expert cocksucker.

Moaning, Joe delicately swiped the tiny slit to catch another pearly drop leaking out. His inner tubing was suddenly charged, full of pre-come. He squeezed his eyes shut and spread the fluid around with the tip of one finger. This could be Sav's tongue tasting him and flicking across the head. Then under the ridge, to locate the most sensitive nerves. Joe tugged at his foreskin to bring it up over the distinctive crown, let it slip back, again and again. The rest of his fist pumped the shaft. 

In his mind, Sav unbuttoned and unzipped him, reached into the darkness and sprung him free. Too-red lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them, wide eyes flicking from Joe's upstanding erection to his face and back, he would wrap his fingers all the way around it just as Joe was doing now. There'd be bass player calluses, not as scratchy as a guitar player's, a bit of rasp to contrast the softer palm. 

Hand motions preceding full-scale ignition began in earnest. Up and down, faster, pulling, stroking... Joe arched sharply, more than he had off the A-shaped frame that day, sticking out his chest and then his crotch. All that arse-wiggling in the name of promotion, did it hint at what he did when he was alone in his bed? Sweat prickled anew across his belly, the side of his forearm slid in it. No, he wasn't holding back now. Juices amassed two-fold, heavy, the tightening cords struggling and stinging to provide the shortest distance from the depths of origin to the outside world. 

Things sped up in his mind, as well. Sav's other hand joined the first, to delicately massage dense contents underneath. The bassist went to his knees, down on the floor to put his throat to other use. First he licked, wet tongue laying down a demo track of intent. When Sav opened his mouth and flicked his hair back, his smooth throat with thin gold chains across worked in preparation, a warm-up. His jaw dropped down, pulling deeper hollows under his cheekbones, and took him in, visually, then orally, lips a tight circle. 

Joe couldn't take it for long before the video that played on the backs of his eyelids changed: their positions were suddenly reversed. Moving the heavy bass Sav always positioned directly in front of his crotch aside, he tugged down the blood-red trousers to find hidden treasure. Down on his knees like a good little slut drooling and slurping because what did he know about this? Enough to know what felt good to him. Eyes upturned, he let his oral cavity be filled full of hard flesh and soon, milky fluid, Sav making the most delicious gasps ever over Joe's wondrous skills, only that that still wasn't all. 

Only recently, a bird had let him put it in her arse. Taught him, on her hands and knees, that he had to use slippery stuff and go slow and... there was the stretching. Blokes had narrower hips and more muscle, but otherwise an arse was an arse, wasn't it? From behind, he might not be able to tell the difference. 

Thing was, he wanted to know all the differences. How would male skin feel under his grip? This wouldn't be accidental contact during sport, it would be about chasing a rush, and about mutual satisfaction. If he was behind Sav, on top, another thought that nearly undid him, would he be able to tell there was tackle stashed below, a flat hard chest tipped with tiny nips? He would have to use his hands.

He was breathless from his efforts, the smell of his own pheromones filtering through - should that really turn him on so much? It did, though. Scent, he'd learned, came with the territory. Birds were individual but the tang of pussy was unmistakable, irresistible. Whatever Sav smelled like in close quarters, it wouldn't be that. He tried to imagine, rubbing one out as he was, almost there, his belly starting to tremble and his arse muscles working, working. 

So close now, swollen to a degree that was rare even for him, Joe tossed his head. Too hot under the blanket, he threw it back. Cooler air hit sweaty flesh, a spearmint rush leaving a wake of temporary gooseflesh and hard nipples. Eyes squeezed shut tight, he polished wood harder than sharp-angled maple and rosewood. It was just him now, him and his hand, and it knew what to do. 

Yes, he was getting off thinking about the sexuality of his best mate, allowing his mind to wander there. How would Sav move under him? Would he submit easily and let Joe determine how hard and how deep? Unlikely. There'd be nervous energy, springy rebound, even taken he would make Joe work for every moan. Tug, yank, fondle, thumb the head where zings of centralised lust pulsed outward to nerve endings near and far... Faster, faster! There it was, that millisecond where he relinquished control, when it took utter control of him in a searingly sweet spasm. 

Flashing pyrotechnics exploded not at Joe's wrists but where they worked. He screamed. He shoved the mike stand three-pronged base first into the camera. The muscles of his thighs, arse, hips and belly all contracted, and he convulsed, thrusting into his hand. Warm, slippery, sticky, slick burst forth with such force his vocalisations could not be stifled between clenched teeth. A wordless screech, all vowels with an open throat. But then, it just kept on, and the configuration of his lips stretched flat and wide. His teeth clicked together before he could stop himself. 

"Saaaavvv..." he moaned, long and hedonistic. His glands strained to pump every ripe cell free. Just him but enough for two, Joe was sure. Milking himself, he shook drops of it around, delighted to have this power at his disposal whenever he needed to flood his body with the natural chemicals of liquid love, let loose in seed and silvery goo. 

What had he done? He'd called out a name not once but three or four times before his crisis of flesh turned into surcease. Now he ached with overuse, the stress of orgasm on top of the strain of the day. Once again, he was thankful no one heard. 

But now, to forget; he mopped up the evidence. That was what sleep was for: to renew. Maybe even to dream of more and let his subconscious work out the details. 

He was floating. The soporific effect had him in its claws, so he gave in to one last thing and slept. 

Fin.


	2. Uncut Extended Version

The video was going to be different than any they'd ever done before. MTV had exploded into the fastest vehicle to super-stardom and if they wanted along for the ride, they'd have to pander to it.

Joe lay back, naked and exhausted, fresh from the shower. What a long day it had been, shooting footage for the type of music video creation required for airtime. His body - naturally hearty; he was tall, young, healthy - had been pushed today. Thank fuck there'd been hot water! He took a moment to reflect upon his clean-up. 

Perhaps it sounded egotistical, but he wished someone could have joined him, to wash and care for him and admire his pale golden skin. Joe lived for attention and connection, he was never stingy with giving back once he'd been indulged. Never did he want stories to circulate that he wasn't every bit as good as he projected. Being a bad lay would kill the fan base almost as fast as getting fat.

Letting the water cascade down all over himself, that was the best part of the day so far. Almost a fantasy, better for being real. He imagined his own long bare limbs flashing between the jets. Heat infused him through and through. Steaming hot water beat across his shoulders, slithered down his back, ran like ticklish fingertips over his arse and down his legs, finally pooling around his toes. Everywhere, he chased it with soap and washed suds away. 

Tipping his newly blond head back, he drenched his hair, the longer strands clinging to his neck. Then the front, with the spray blasting his chest and running on down. He already had a covering of hair over his pecs, though his flat mauve nipples and beyond were excluded. It became a wet pelt, which he washed, then turned his attention lower to parts he carefully tended to but only to clean just yet. Then the real dirty bits, the parts that needed more soap. He raised one arm to scrub, then the other. Yeah, he had nice biceps, he knew it, sort of long and stringy but very noticeable in sleeveless shirts with his arms up. Furtively checking though he knew he was alone, he turned around once more to sanitise his bum. His fingers along the cleft gave him illicit tingles he tried to ignore, but his dick, apparently, could not. A different sort of heat coalesced and began to rise at his groin. 

He turned the water off. Then he was done, out, grabbing a fresh towel off the rack to dry off on the way to his room. Unable to resist a glance in the steam-wreathed mirror, he studied his tousled, water-logged look. He couldn't help a nod. And a second look, and a third. Over the past couple of years his facial features had subtly changed, jaw narrowed and eyes wider. Maybe it was the hair style refocusing the viewers' eyes, the lighter length highlighting a new vision of him. Of all of them, his chest had a depth to it. Power, range, all those vocal and breathing exercises come to fruition. Still wet, water shone on his bare body reminiscent of gleaming with sweat under the lights. 

So good to be clean! Dropping the towel next to his bed, he'd slid under the covers before the humid warmth could evaporate. 

Settled in the bed, Joe reached down and touched himself. Tonight he needed it more than ever. Years had taught him how to control the teenage hormones to some degree, but they had never died down. The opposite, once he'd learned how to do the dance to get what he wanted. A hand there, where he had to keep it away from other than furtive adjustments, told him as always, he was a man. 

The line between men and women had grown thinner since his school days. Some women came to their shows with the sole purpose of getting a leg over, he supposed one could say. He certainly didn't mind. Nor did his mates. Just thinking about a few choice backstage adventures on the last tours had him chubbing up further. That was always how it went: first the breadth and then the length, and then, the head would mushroom out with its rounded yet angled ridge. He tested the expanding dimensions with light touches, teasing them to grow to full size. 

Testosterone, not just his, had predominated the shoot. A full day of watching his bandmates and knowing their eyes were all over him, too, left him with a lot of tension. Then there'd been the actresses - those portraying the Fates and those in cages. Ripped clothes, big hair, loud make-up everywhere, trademarks of the times and of girls who lived almost as fast as the boys they chased. While there'd been little interaction between the groups, they got to watch in turn. 

Joe snorted to himself. 'Got to watch.' It sounded sexy but the reality was far from it, everything in multiple takes, starting and stopping. Kind of like recording an album. But the end result would be so worth it. 

There was still plenty of their usual air guitar. Hair guitar. Yes, phallic symbols for three of them anyway, slung at crotch level or higher or lower and Joe ate that up, watching them play with themselves on stage. Or like today, faking it. Fingers and picks following the music, rather than making it. The play of Joe's fingers encouraged further lengthening, thickening, stiffening. He considered the short chunky lines of a Gibson Les Paul custom, deceivingly fine strings that produced everything from growls to harmonics, precision speed and sloppy drunken hooks just waiting to be polished. Then a sleek black Ibanez worthy of the label of axe. Screams of silken fire and swaggering rage generated there, soaring triplets that would echo across time. Between and below, the long, elegant neck of a Hamer. Their bassist wielded the four-string version of a Destroyer these days, and it suited him. No big ugly, clumsy, rounded boat of an instrument for him. Its four thick strings stood out like unconcealed weapons. In competition with the thing, wood versus wood, Joe had to squeeze his eyes shut tight not to want to rub his dick against the sheer size of it. 

Instead, he let his hand caress his instrument. Its double barrel was fretless, better to please. From where it jutted from his groin to the tip, its width consistently filled the cave of his curled fingers. No guitar was ever this responsive. Just the touch of his own fingers set licks of molten lust through his body. Toes spread and curled. Knees bent, and pushed apart. He'd have sworn his balls grew, too, and they needed the extra room. 

Starting with himself in first place for most magnificent transformation, Joe contemplated the combination of luck and drive - and hairspray and bleach - that had brought them there to the studio, where he'd been singled out, being the lead singer, as the one to have to do a bit of acting. For years now he'd been at the front of the stage, in front of the band but this was a new level of pressure, something he'd never attempted before.

As if he were still chained to the metal frame, Joe straightened his long legs and moved them further apart under the sheet. He closed his eyes, and remembered. Bright lights had shone all over him. He'd been dressed in white, the sacrificial lamb. They'd placed a camera beyond his feet but between his legs and he'd been dubious. Really? All they were going to get was balls. But no, they had their own photographic tricks and also, a pair of pants so tight for Joe to be shooed into the loo to stuff himself into, his nether regions might never be the same. 

No, that was a lie. The swelling meat in his hand said all systems were go. Joe gave it slow, long strokes till his staff was fully hardened. Here again, he knew he was lucky to own this piece, and he was proud of it, too, both the size and shape of it as well as what he'd learned he could do with it. He had been blessed in its dimensions and aesthetics. Veiny, but otherwise the stretched skin was silky-smooth when he was erect like this, the foreskin evident even when hard though it retracted enough to show the dark-reddish head. 

Thumbing the slit, he spread the welling droplets all around. With the other hand, he combed through his bush a few times, thinking it was good he'd trimmed it considering how see-through those trousers had been. So strange, that a bloke would be required to do such a thing, but he knew he wasn't the only one. Phil was hairy as fuck but he'd once taken a clipper to that mess in front of all of them, forthright as anything. Pretty soon they were all doing it. Joe chuckled, thinking about pretty boys and their pretty pubes. 

Lower, past the still-swelling base of his cock, he let his sac rest in the palm of his hand. The two heavy stones inside tightened with the contact. It was a man's instinct to protect his jewels. Being able to play with them, move them and roll them, was such a delight. His little huffs of caught breath punctuated each dangerous tug. The juices inside moved only a bit through their ducts, a minute droplet at a time being added to the load. It needed to be huge tonight, the kind of gusher to make him jack-knife and sully his chest hair till it gelled into a sticky mat. 

The pain of holding back, holding off all day had returned. Ignoring his body's demands for a speedy release, Joe went back to his memory of the day again. They'd wanted him to pull at the bonds, to fight against them. So yes, he'd done it, had given them their show. Writhing and straining, he arched and lifted his arse, providing what they wanted: muscles, exposed navel, the lines of his body, spread legs and his sweating face contorted in the name of lip-sync, in torture and ecstasy. 

Yeah, the others had watched. At first, they'd made their little comments and catcalls, but as it wore on, take after take with small variations, everyone had gone more and more silent. Joe would have sworn he could hear them all breathing, panting, peeking between the cameramen and grips who'd seen it all before. It was down to him to get it right, and not get hard as they all observed his squirming. Even at 23, he was the consummate performer and managed not to allow his bits to betray him. No longer under a hundred watchful eyes, he performed for no one but himself, playing with his boner in his bed. Pull, slide, spread the slick.

When that part was over and they let him down off the framework, he'd had a long drink from his flask. He'd needed it bad. Naked and alone, Joe's throat hitched a few times. He should have brought a bottle to bed with him, it would be better than being alone. And he needn't be, so why was he? 

Steve and Phil certainly weren't alone. They'd been the most vocal of commentators, but they'd also been eye-fucking each other the entire time and he'd seen them duck into shadows more than once. He had to admit, it was hot. He hadn't actually witnessed the snogging, humping or whatever they were doing, but knowing it was happening, he couldn't help it, it aroused him. A grinning Rick had been ferried off at the end by not just one but three of those cage chicks. No doubt he was in for one hell of a wild night. And why not? If their drummer chose to perform in nothing but tiny short-shorts, someone was going to notice what they were concealing not all that well, and what they weren't. "X" marks the spot, right? Hell, the kid was 19, he could probably still get it up four or five times a day and take care of those three birds, easy. 

The next suite of strokes were dedicated to the aforementioned. Joe felt no shame in wanking to fantasies of his bandmates getting it on. The thoughts were his, it wasn't like he was banging any of them himself or hosting orgies with the extras. He could have. Some of those girls were into him; he'd easily read their posture and gestures. Years of being looked at, leered at, undressed by pairs of eyes of every colour told him that he'd have been naked in less than a minute if any of them could have turned thoughts into actions. 

The past year had brought big changes, Joe reflected. The less than perfect thoughts didn't cool his desire. His thighs were as wide as they'd go now, arse muscles tight. Just a little push into his hand. Wanting to thrust, he let himself coil and shove once. A quick squeeze around the base of his balls prevented their elevation just yet. 

Phil replaced Pete, something that Joe had had to make peace with, a necessary move though he had hated every second of the prelude, years long though it was, and breaking the news. They were about to go on tour and couldn't have one of them falling-down drunk and belligerent every night again. Pete had always been their foil, small and dark. With his hair grown out, if he'd have got his teeth straightened, with those pillowy lips... No use thinking of it anymore, though. Joe could lift the tiny birds that had it bad for Pete with one hand and bang them against the wall. Hell, had and did. 

But now... their look, they were all shades of blond, streaked and straightened. Blame the London style Phil wore, they'd gone in for it. Well, other than Sav. Joe didn't know about the multi-shaded fuzzball he was calling hair these days. Also Phil's influence or maybe just fashion, gold hoop earrings abounded. They were no longer stealing mums' and sisters' clothes, but wearing off-the-rack pieces to show off their... boys. 

Yeah, Joe could see it - them - too when they'd play back the last bit of footage between takes. His thin trousers had been so translucent, his panty-lines had been obvious, and so had his bollocks once he was centred behind his mike stand and gravity did its thing, as he'd suspected. But no one complained. It wasn't just him, either. Phil hitched his inseam up farther than necessary, and Steve bulged worse than Joe sometimes, unintentionally. Then there was Rick flopping around back there... 

What was this, a competition? No, appreciation. They were all well-hung young blokes with little to no shame. That was part of the fun, seeing how far they could go in photo shoots or onstage, or who could tell the loudest, dirtiest joke but not get them kicked out of the pub. Their mate Halfin was just as bad, what with the shots he took of them constantly pointing at or otherwise displaying their assets. 

Maybe he was naked and alone now, grinding his butt into the mattress but in his fantasy he was half-dressed again. Not in the white ensemble from earlier, but shiny pleather black as sin and a belt made of handcuff pieces slung carelessly around his waist. Heartbeat thundering, Joe imagined other fingers sliding up and down, cupping him. Feeling him so ready and aching. A bass player would know how to handle the longer length, something big and thick. Would know when to play it soft and melodic, or when to pound it. 

Fuck. Sav. His best mate, supposedly. Joe snaked his back, a sinuous side to side, every vertebra involved, and thrust into his hand. "Fuuuuck... Yeaaah," he groaned, echoing his own thoughts, dipping down into his true baritone range. Since the beginning, Sav's place on stage had been in the middle, right beside Joe. Their harmony formed the backbone of the vocal wall, while Sav also held up the rhythm with Rick. Everyone knew Steve couldn't sing, though he tried. Phil more often than not sounded like he was taking a big dump, live, and Rick was very much hit or miss. So Joe needed Sav, in that regard. 

And he needed him in another regard, lately. The dailies or the playback or whatever these music business people called it saw the bassist's lush mouth inches from the camera more often than Joe's. Sav had bent around sideways and let his mess of curls hang down while he sneered into the upturned lens. Gawd, he wanted, he just wanted. What that mouth could do to him... and if Sav was as inexperienced at sucking dick as they all were, presumably, they could learn together. That would almost be better than if Sav were an expert cocksucker.

Moaning, Joe delicately swiped the tiny slit to catch another pearly drop leaking out. His inner tubing was suddenly charged, full of pre-come. He squeezed his eyes shut and spread the fluid around with the tip of one finger. This could be Sav's tongue tasting him and flicking across the head. Then under the ridge, to locate the most sensitive nerves. Joe tugged at his foreskin to bring it up over the distinctive crown, let it slip back, again and again. The rest of his fist pumped the shaft. 

In his mind, Sav unbuttoned and unzipped him, reached into the darkness and sprung him. Too-red lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them, wide eyes flicking from Joe's upstanding erection to his face and back, he would wrap his fingers all the way around it just as Joe was doing now. Maybe not quite all the way around; Sav was always bitching about his small hands. There'd be bass player calluses, not as scratchy as a guitar player's, a bit of rasp to contrast the softer palm. 

Hand motions preceding full-scale ignition began in earnest. Up and down, faster, pulling, stroking... Joe arched sharply, more than he had off the A-shaped frame that day, sticking out his chest and then his crotch. All that arse-wiggling in the name of promotion, did it hint at what he did when he was alone in his bed? Sweat prickled anew across his belly, the side of his forearm slid in it. No, he wasn't holding back now. Juices amassed two-fold, heavy, the tightening cords struggling and stinging to provide the shortest distance from the depths of origin to the outside world. 

Things sped up in his mind, as well. Sav's other hand joined the first, to delicately massage dense contents underneath. The bassist went to his knees, down on the floor to put his throat to other use. It had to be that. Never, ever, would Joe just expect anything from him or anyone. First he licked, wet tongue laying down a demo of intent. When Sav opened his mouth and flicked his hair back, his smooth throat with thin gold chains across worked in preparation, a warm-up. His jaw dropped down, pulling deeper hollows under his cheekbones, and took him in, visually, then orally, lips a tight circle. 

Joe couldn't take the imagery for long before the video playing on the backs of his eyelids changed: their positions were suddenly reversed. Moving the heavy bass Sav always positioned directly in front of his crotch aside, he tugged down the blood-red trousers to find hidden treasure. Down on his knees like a good little slut drooling and slurping because what did he know about this? Enough to know what felt good to him. Eyes upturned, he let his oral cavity be filled full of hard flesh and soon, milky fluid, Sav making the most delicious gasps ever over Joe's wondrous skills, only that that still wasn't all. 

Only recently, a bird had let him put it in her arse. Taught him, on her hands and knees, that he had to use slippery stuff and go slow and... there was the stretching. Blokes had narrower hips and more muscle, but otherwise an arse was an arse, wasn't it? From above, in the doggy position, he might not be able to tell the difference. 

Thing was, he wanted to know all the differences. How would male skin feel under his grip? This wouldn't be accidental contact during sport, it would be about chasing a rush, and about mutual satisfaction. If he was behind Sav, on top, a thought that nearly undid him, would he be able to tell there was tackle stashed below, a flat hard chest tipped with tiny nips? He would have to use his hands. Usually curled around a mike and the long stand, he'd use one for leverage, and the other to keep time.

He was breathless from his efforts, the smell of his own pheromones filtering through - should that really turn him on so much? But it did. Scent, he'd learned, came with the territory. Birds were individual but the tang of pussy was unmistakable, irresistible. Instinctual. Whatever Sav smelled like in close quarters, it wouldn't be that. He tried to imagine, rubbing one out as he was, almost there, his belly starting to tremble and his arse muscles working, working... Sav, sweat and musk over soap and shampoo, cinnamon and cedar, old pages, sun-warmed sand, fresh bread, cut grass, fretboard oil. 

And Joe was a bloke so he needed to see, too, he decided. To compare. If they were going to do this, he was going to watch every touch ripple-effect into shudders and gooseflesh, and into blown blue eyes. So then, face-to-face might further the shock value. 

So close now, swollen to a degree that was rare even for him, Joe tossed his head. Too hot under the blanket, he threw it back. Cooler air hit sweaty flesh, a spearmint rush leaving a wake of temporary gooseflesh and hard nipples. Eyes squeezed shut tight, he polished wood, steel, diamond. Harder than sharp-angled maple and rosewood, or the ore of their homeland, or the status they craved enough to allow a day of voyeurism as the in-road to millions. It was just him now, him and his hand, and it knew what to do. 

Back to his fantasy... that's what this was, he admitted it to himself. Yes, he was getting off thinking about the sexuality of his best mate, allowing his mind to wander there. They were together in his bed, right here. Naked. Rubbing up against each other. Hips alive with tension grinding, pulsing. Legs entwined. And honestly? They didn't even need to fuck, just feeling Sav's body with its corresponding parts, flat and taut instead of soft mounds, jutting up proud. 

Tug, yank, fondle, thumb the head where zings of centralised lust pulsed outward to nerve endings near and far... Unstoppable stiffness and throbbing aligned between them, hot against hot. He wanted to roll on top; would Sav accept that? Whether shy or forthright about, he only wanted his mate to need the contact just as much. Need him. Need for them to hump against each other naked like two overgrown kids finding the new once again, the thrill of the first time. And kissing. Tongues touching. The thought of doing that with their eyes open and locked, so he could see it when Sav...

There it was, that millisecond where he relinquished control. When it took utter control of him in a searingly sweet spasm. Flashing pyrotechnics exploded not at Joe's wrists but where they worked. He screamed. He shoved the mike stand three-pronged base first into the camera. The muscles of his thighs, arse, hips and belly all contracted, and he convulsed, thrusting into his hand. Warm, slippery, sticky, slick burst forth with such force his screams could not be stifled between clenched teeth. A wordless screech, all vowels with an open throat. But then, it just kept on, and the configuration of his lips stretched flat and wide. His teeth clicked together before he could stop himself. 

"Saaaavvv..." he moaned, long and hedonistic. His aching testes, Sav's, they'd unload into the skin-on-skin between their bellies and smear their sybaritic essences into flesh and hair. Just him now, but enough for two, Joe was sure. His glands strained to pump every ripe cell free. Milking himself, he shook drops of it around, delighted to have this power at his disposal whenever he needed to flood his body with the natural chemicals of liquid love, let loose in seed and silvery goo. 

What had he done? He'd called out a name not once but three or four times before his crisis of flesh turned into surcease. Now he ached with overuse, the stress of orgasm on top of the strain of the day. It would be foolish, to chance the future on the remotest of possibilities, here on the cusp of real renown. He did - and didn't do - what he had to. They all did. 

But now, to forget. That was what sleep was for. To renew. Maybe even to dream of more, let his subconscious work out the details. As he mopped up the evidence, he wondered why he'd stopped himself from saying the words to invite the reality, not just fantasy. He wanted to. But they weren't there yet. Everything they claimed to want, the real pinnacle, lay ahead of them. He would take no unnecessary risks.

He was floating. The soporific effect had him in its claws, so he gave in to one more thing and slept. 

 

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Which version did you prefer? Speak!


End file.
